


balms

by JadeClover



Series: star-hewn colossi [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Background Alfor/Honerva/Zarkon, Comfort, F/M, Injury, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 11:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeClover/pseuds/JadeClover
Summary: After a lab accident leaves her with a severe acid burn to her arm, Honerva must rest while she begins to heal. That is far easier said than done, but an unexpected visitor provides her with just the comfort she was lacking.





	balms

The door hisses open, cutting through a heat-tinged fog, and without thinking she startles, limbs tensing beneath silken sheets. One arm immediately bursts into agony, and she curls over it, eyes clenching tighter, watering, while the rest of her mind struggles through darkness and a thin, wavery haze to try and form a thought coherent enough to wonder why someone just entered the Imperial bedchamber unannounced.  
  
It cannot be evening already. It _cannot._ She knows her own mind well enough to know that, and she was not sleeping. If only she had been...  
  
But could it be Zarkon, returned early? She _told_ him—he cannot neglect his duties simply because she is injured and he wants to be by her side. But if he found a spare moment to slip away...  
  
That tread—it is not his.  
  
Jaw clenched tight from the effort, the pain burning and lancing through her in hot, nauseating waves, she shifts herself just enough to realize she won't be able to do much else—nothing _effective_ —( _and please don't let this be another enterprising assassin_ )—and she slumps back into the mattress with a hiss of breath, about to try and find her voice to demand the intruder's identity—( _too armored to be a healer, too noisy to be a servant_ )—when the owner of the approaching footsteps speaks.  
  
"Honerva?"  
  
A tick, and her mind blanks, then floods with the realization that she was silly to think it was an assassin in the first place. ( _There are guards._ Everywhere. _This is the_ palace, _and security is so much better after the last time._ )  
  
Her limbs, previously trying to muster the strength to make themselves work and lift her up, fall flat again, every inch grateful for it. The arm, though, the left one—it still _burns._ Throbs. Doesn't stop.  
  
"Don't worry. It's only me."  
  
 _Yes. You._ Alfor.  
  
 _What are_ you _doing here?_  
  
But he comes and he goes, doesn't he? Business. That's what kings do. If he'd come to socialize, or if he was here for one of the paladins' after-mission celebrations, he would have commed her—invited her along, probably, if Zarkon had not done so already. But sometimes leaders prefer to exchange words in person, and that is likely the true reason Alfor is on Daibazaal.  
  
Business.  
  
But why did Zarkon not tell her? Perhaps the arrangement was only made recently... And if not, she was not very open to conversation these past quintants, was she? He would not have wanted to trouble her.  
  
The footsteps draw close to the bed, the chair left by one of the healers scraping against the floor as it's dragged over. Smooth metal meets the cushion's fabric as he sits, a swift and muffled sort of sound.  
  
Several ticks pass. She waits for him to speak, but with an annoyance she cannot manage more than a twitch of her ears to express, the realization settles in that he must be _studying_ her.  
  
 _I am fine, Alfor,_ she prepares to say.  
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
"...I am fine."  
  
The sleep medicine barely lasts two vargas before the pain wakes her, and the healers will only give it to her twice a quintant. She spent the morning lying here, awake, drifting in and out of awareness but never quite losing enough consciousness to rest as she waits for the next dose, nothing to do and little to think of ever since Zarkon gave one last, lingering touch to her hair, to her cheek, and slipped from the room to attend to Imperial business.  
  
( _She is bored. She is lonely._ )  
  
It is not a pleasant way to spend a day. She does not recommend it.  
  
( _Even through the fog of pain and exhaustion, that self-recrimination finds its way in, sharper and clearer than all the rest._ If you had not been so careless in a room full of acids, you would not be forced to endure this. _But what is done cannot be_ un _done, can it?_ )  
  
Alfor shifts in his chair, the shuffle of armor and cloth so loud and painful that just for a tick, she wants to reach up and claw her own ears off. She _breathes._  
  
"I only have twenty doboshes," Alfor says. "If you can stand me that long." The weak attempt at humor falls flat, swallowed back up by the worry before he even finishes speaking.  
  
The mere beacon of his presence, a brightness cutting through an otherwise-bleak morning ( _or is it afternoon?_ ), gives her the energy to push herself up and finally move. Shifting her left arm as little as possible, she angles herself over and rolls onto her other side. The arm comes to rest as gently as possible on a waiting pillow, but even the slight pressure of silky down and the thin cover sends waves of pain wherever it meets the bandages. She grits her teeth until she can think again.  
  
Her eyes resist when she pries them open, having been closed far longer than she can remember in this fog, and even the dim light of the bedchamber sends bright knives into her skull. Head pounding, she blinks against it, eyes watering, until a vaguely Alfor-shaped blur solidifies at her bedside. She only relaxes into darkness again when she makes out the details of a worried face, furrowed brows.  
  
"Hello," she murmurs.  
  
Almost amused by it, for some reason: "Hello, Honerva."  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"Twenty-five until two."  
  
"Oh." A pause. "Why are you here?"  
  
His tone is almost wry, as though it should have been obvious. "Business."  
  
The vagueness does not indicate a lack of trust; this is not a deliberate attempt to keep her from learning the details. He may be secretive with matters of state, as is his right because ( _legally, at least_ ) she is a foreign dignitary now, but often he simply does not want to burden her with it ( _though Zarkon never sees such a need_ ). And this time, she can tell—it is more that _"business"_ is such a boring, mundane thing that finding the words to describe it would be more effort than it deserves.  
  
He likely plans to discuss that business with Zarkon at two. Twenty doboshes is not very long... Though, _five_ doboshes would be an eternity if it was the healers come to change her arm's dressings or ask after her pain again, but Alfor is different. He is a friend. And she never sees him enough anymore.  
  
"Forgive me if I do not seem coherent," she murmurs. "I may have a mild fever. And I hardly slept at all the past three quintants." She mentions nothing of the pain; it goes without saying.  
  
"Fever?" His voice dips in concern.  
  
"It is not infection," she assures him. "And I informed the Galran doctors of all they need to know about Altean medicine." Since marrying Zarkon and taking up permanent residence on Daibazaal, she was forced to memorize her own species' medical textbooks. Distinct differences between Galran and Altean physiologies mean the methods used to treat their illnesses can vary wildly, and she will not have some fledgling healer's mistake costing her health or her life.  
  
( _Thirty decaphoebs of experience... They call it "considerable, remarkable expertise," but any Altean healer in practice for thirty decaphoebs would not have their license yet, they would be an apprentice in_ school.)  
  
"I heard the loose details of the accident..." Alfor begins.  
  
And that, there, is a prompt. "What is there to say? I was careless, acid corrodes flesh, and I learned my lesson on lab safety."  
  
A small sound, almost like a laugh, but not happy enough for that. "I would say you have. Are you in much pain?"  
  
 _"Much."_ Somehow, it is easier to admit if she is scarcely thinking... and because he is Alfor, not a healer. She trusts him.  
  
The arm, where acid had eaten away at whole swaths of skin, _burns_ beneath its dressings. Her shoulder aches as well. _Why do_ you _hurt?_ she asks it. _You were not even affected_.  
  
The tender, new muscles in her forearm still protest even the slight exertion of _merely rolling over in bed._ They were damaged in the accident, right down to the bone in some places, but unlike the melted dermis and epidermis, her natural healing activated to repair them without aid.  
  
She heard, before she was released into the comfort of her and her husband's bed, the doctors in the medical wing whispering with no care for the keenness of Altean ears. They were astonished by the speed at which the muscles regrew, and that alone is proof they are _far_ too unaccustomed to her kind to be properly treating her.  
  
"Did they give you any numbing gel?"  
  
"No. They can't. The components would exacerbate the wound."  
  
A slightly pained sound. "Any other analgesics?"  
  
"Yes—and not the Galran ones. I made sure." The Galran ones may stop an Altean's pain, but they would also stop one's _breathing._ A sigh. "This is _with_ the painkillers, Alfor."  
  
A heavy, laden silence settles in, in which Alfor says nothing because nothing exists to be said that could help. What _would_ help is if she could return to her lab. Already her mind burns with the agony of idleness. The healers danced around giving her an exact estimate of her recovery time; she suspects it is an attempt to keep her from overworking herself and undermining their efforts, and she would be more upset if she did not know her own tendencies just as well as they do. ( _Zarkon is likely aware of their tactics, but unfortunately for her, he is also against the idea of her putting herself under any kind of strain, even if she promises to limit herself. He is still pretending he hasn't noticed._ )  
  
...But could she truly manage to get anything done in this state anyway?  
  
She lets out a long, slow breath, something very close to a sigh. Armor rings dully as Alfor shifts.  
  
"Is there anything I can do?"  
  
"Not unless you learned any magic that will relieve pain... or instantly regrow damaged tissue."  
  
"Mmm..." A pause, as though he actually considers it. "No. I'm afraid not. That's a bit beyond my scope."  
  
That last bit is beyond _anyone's_ scope—anyone except a healing pod's, perhaps, and the nature of the acid and the injury prevents that. She will simply have to deal with this.  
  
The chair scrapes against the floor as Alfor drags it closer. Faintly, the vibrations of his knees impacting with the side of the mattress ripple into her, and even without watching, she knows when he leans close, hears the nearness of his breathing. A pause in which he remembers to tug off a glove, and she expects the warm fingertips, calloused from the sword, when they brush against her temple, guiding back stray hairs ( _and something in her fairly melts at that. She was lonely all day, and she missed him; Altea is so far away, and they both face duties that never cease_ ).  
  
The hand shifts its movement, drifting off to trace the shape of an ear, and she very nearly opens her eyes at that, unable to suppress a shiver. The ear twitches against his fingertips, agitated by the disturbance, but it settles quickly. He traces it again, slow and feather-light.  
  
It is... quite forward, isn't it? But it's Alfor—he's allowed to be forward with her.  
  
The touch has exactly the effect he hoped for; her limbs loosen, more tension seeping out of them than she knew was there. The feeling is like finally breathing again after a long time, remembering what it is to understand relief. Despite the pain still lingering, her thoughts have gone blessedly blank, that loud, burning ache quieted as if a blanket was laid over it.  
  
 _Hm,_ she thinks lightly. _Endorphins._  
  
Altean ears are... highly sensitive, and Alfor knows how to use that. The universe reduces to the impossibly-gentle trailing of fingertips down the lines and curves of the ear. Perhaps she is enjoying this a bit too much, but Alfor knows that too, and it _helps._ She sinks deeper into the mattress with a sigh.  
  
"If it weren't for this armor," he murmurs, "I would climb in there with you. But there's not enough time..."  
  
Stars take the unfortunate habit planetary rulers seem to have of wandering around in full armor. What does it prove? Are they constantly expecting to be attacked?  
  
She does not notice the small, displeased sound she makes until Alfor laughs, barely loud enough to be heard.  
  
"Sorry," he says, humor still lingering in his voice.  
  
She cannot manage words now. A discontent grumble will have to suffice. He always knows what she means.  
  
But does he know what he gives her with this...? A distraction, but such a powerful one words cannot describe it, even as he tells her what she could have had in the same breath he says she cannot. ( _She imagines his arms around her, warm, holding her close like they're students chasing alchemy certifications again._ )  
  
"Are you going to see Zarkon?" she manages.  
  
A small _hm_ of assent. "I must leave in a few doboshes." Regret in his voice— _understandable._  
  
"Tell him I am feeling... _mildly_ better, would you?"  
  
"I will." The smile is almost visible in his voice, and her mind presents her with an image of pleased, flicking ears, the light in his eyes, as clear as if her own eyes were not closed.  
  
"Good."  
  
She settles her entire consciousness into the sensation of fingertips still trailing over her ear, holding onto that feeling until it ends. Several doboshes after they fall into silence, he draws his hand away, the reluctance clear.  
  
A sigh catches in her chest, and almost instantly, the ache of her arm returns, all the worse because she knew it would come, couldn't keep herself from anticipating it. Just for a tick, Alfor's fingertips brush back the hair from her temple one last time, then the sounds of his armor rise, fade.  
  
"Feel better," he whispers.  
  
"I will."  
  
The truth of injuries like this, when faced with an Altean's natural recovery speed and the medicine of the modern age? They _heal._ The Galran doctors had worried about the muscles, but that tissue knit itself back together quintants ago, and the rest will soon follow. She will have a... very _impressive,_ if that is the right word to call it, scar down her forearm, but that cannot be helped. A part of her is anxious to see what it will look like even as the other part dreads it.  
  
The chair gives one final, loud scrape, the sound jagged and rust-hued in her mind's eye, and Alfor stands. "I will stop in again if I can," he murmurs, "but I don't expect I'll be able to."  
  
Yes. Kingly business, and that. She understands. She is married to an emperor, after all.  
  
The shift of his armor foretells him leaning down, so very careful of her aching arm where it lies on the pillow. He presses warm lips to her brow, and... stars, she loves him, but that's obvious, isn't it?  
  
Her own lips turn up. Like a bright beacon, the possibility of actual sleep hovers before her now, so soothed from lonely idleness has his visit left her. _Thank you, Alfor._  
  
"Go tell that to Zarkon," she murmurs, pulling that warmth around her mind like a blanket.  
  
He straightens. "What? A kiss?"  
  
"Yes. That." Forgive her fever and exhaustion—she cannot help it.  
  
"There are other dignitaries at this meeting. I'm not going to kiss him if there are others in the room."  
  
Humor curls through her, but _of course_ she did not mean it that way. What a scandal it would be, an "affair" between planetary leaders when the old wars are still too fresh in their history books. And regardless—whatever exists between the two of them, the _three_ of them, is _private_.  
  
"Then find somewhere else," she mutters, but she scarcely means it. Zarkon is particular about kisses anyway—from anyone. "Call me, Alfor."  
  
A small laugh. "Yes, Honerva. I will."  
  
"Good."  
  
Armored feet take a step back. "Try and get some sleep if you can."  
  
"I will."  
  
"Then sleep well." His voice is so soft only an Altean could hear it at this distance.  
  
He murmurs a quiet, formal farewell that hits her with a stab of nostalgia for a world whose ways she left behind long ago. She never regretted it, but...  
  
In her silence, his footsteps recede, the door hissing open and sliding shut again. Final.  
  
Will she manage to sleep now? The pain is no better. Her thoughts are like tossing and turning beneath a blanket, exhausted yet unable to go still, but she will never know if sleep might find her until she wakes, will she?  
  
A heavy breath, too much effort to pull in. She shifts again, the arm burning with the motion—the shoulder, too, and everything else—but when she rolls back over, no longer subjecting it to that thrice-cursed pillow, it is... _marginally_ more bearable.  
  
Another sigh as she tries to hold on to that warmth, that softening haze, the dulling of a mind that both craves and hates its own motion. This is the closest to sleep she managed so far outside a dose of medicine. Her limbs are loose, all but the aching arm sprawled out beneath the blankets. Alfor may no longer be here to distract her, but despite his absence, the memory of his visit leaves a soft, curling warmth in her chest, hovering somewhere just below the sternum, and it is not likely to fade soon.  
  
She holds it close...  
  
...and next she knows it is late evening, Zarkon leaning over her, his fingertips trailing down her face again, and from somewhere behind the pain, she _smiles._


End file.
